Prologue
On the edge of a great sprawling lawn stood two beings. A very tall, old man with his very long, gray beard tucked in his belt and a small, silver tabby perched beside his heels, her smart and not-altogether-feline eyes fixed upon the scene before them. They looked out upon the creaking home set into the deep green grassy field, its roof caved in and a thin trail of smoke gliding up from the empty depths below. No lights glowed in the windows and the front door rested off its hinges against the brick outer wall, its yellow paint scorched black from spell-fire. The small garden nuzzling up against the wrap-around porch was trampled and flat, a thin trail of florescent pink sludge blazing against the crushed marigolds and rosebushes. Above the smoldering home rested a floating ghastly skull with a thick snake spreading from its grinning mouth like a tongue. The green of the magic specter cast the acre of land in an otherworldly light—giving it a hazy and ethereal atmosphere. The two creatures on the outermost edge of the home felt disturbed and uncomfortable in the presence of an obvious evil having been done here.
The cat blinked once, slowly, and turned her head towards the man above her. He nodded and she stepped forward, into the shadowy realm in front of them. Quick as lightening, she glided through the grass and up into the desolate place, her paws narrowly avoiding shattered glass and embers burning in the carpet. A body lay sprawled in the living room, a pool of blood spreading out from its head. She neared it slowly, whiskers twitching and her eyes narrowed into slits, a very human frown tilting down the edges of her maw. She nosed against the dead hand where a wand rested just out of reach of the outstretched fingers and she crept forward on her belly to nuzzle at the slack cheek of the brown-haired man. His eyes were open, a dull chestnut, and his mouth hung limp, lips parted. She mewed softly in distress and continued forward into the home, her tail hanging low and the fur along her spine puffed up.
She passed through the kitchen where a mixing bowl rested on the counter, its whisk still churning in circles and the pot resting on the stove bubbling cheerfully and smelling like stew. The only sounds in the house were the odd noises from the magical utensils in the dark kitchen and the tiny clinking of something down the hall. She made her way toward the tinkling on silent paws and came to a door lying on its side, half in and half out of the room. A low purr started deep in her chest, attempting to quell the disquiet she felt as she stepped into the room. It was dark but her large eyes grew quickly adjusted, the diamond pupil expanding into a wide disk of inky blackness. A grayness covered the room, leeching away all the color from the nursery so that the once brilliant yellow walls were instead a muted, ugly mustard and the moonlight coming in from the single window across the room was dull and bland against the horror inside.
A woman rested on her side beside the crib. She was a short woman and well-rounded about the hips, but death made her seem tiny, like a child. The soft, red-brown curls were cropped close to her skull and the cat could see a tiny trickle of blood running from forehead down to her jaw where it dripped from the corner of her mouth onto the white carpet. Her wide and pretty hazel eyes were open and searching into the void, her eyebrows pinched in a final confusion at her sudden and permanent situation. She had been dressed for cooking, a cute frilly apron crumpled under her form and a crooked wand hanging from its middle pocket. The cat whined and crept closer to the body.
The sound of a hard object being run across the flats of a crib brought her head up from the dead woman and up towards the little boy staring down at her from his bed. He held the heavy pendant of his mother's necklace in his baby hands and was running it back and forth against the bars of his crib, the broken chain twisted around his wrist. His small, round face was pinched and tear tracks ran down his cheeks as he looked upon his mother on the floor. "Mumma," he sniffled, the soft pucker of his cherubic mouth a bright pink against his pale face. "Mumma, mumma, mumma…"
The dark-haired infant blinked in surprise and his mouth closed on its litany and the bottom lip pressed out, plump and trembling. The cat had shifted quite suddenly and now an older woman stood above him, a trail of silvery sparks vanishing against her edges. The witch's black hair was streaked with gray and twisted up in a tight bun and she stared at him with sad, black eyes.
"Come here, ye wee laddie," she murmured gently and plucked him from the bed, her arms wrapped around him in maternal comfort. The round head pressed against her breast and he peaked up at her, his tiny fist tucked into the wide, flat edge of her cloak. "Let's get ye outta this place."
Minerva McGonagall carried the baby from the room and back through the hallway. She passed the busy kitchen and with a swish of a long, fir wand had quieted the boiling pot and the spinning whisk. She passed the corpse of the boy's father and pressed a hand against the child's eyes so he wouldn't see it. The moonlight streamed in through the gaping hole of the roof and she glanced briefly at the deceased man and the silvery glint of the moon on his blood before continuing on and out the broken doorway.
Albus Dumbledore waited at the edge of the lawn, his hands held together in front of his belt, blue eyes faint beneath the brim of his pointed hat. He watched her progress with a strong frown and when she had reached his side, he glanced down at the infant in her arms.
"Hello, child," he whispered. The honey eyes of the babe watched him, unblinking and he pressed his fingers against the round cheek. "We must take him to his grandmother immediately. The Ministry will be here soon to investigate the disturbance in the Wards and we must make sure he is safe before then. We don't know who is lurking in the Ministry's midst and I would not have the boy harmed."
"Yes, Albus," said Minerva, running a hand down the soft, brown curls on the boy's head. "I'll take him myself."
"Be sure to explain to Augusta what has occurred and to be ready in case His followers should attempt vengeance."
"Yes, Albus."
"When you have finished there, come and find me at the Potters. I want to relocate them to the Order's headquarters."
"Yes, Albus."
"Go, Minerva."
She nodded her head and stepped past him. As she turned sharply for Apparition, she caught the solemn and grave look on his face. His mouth was twisted in a grimace and in the split second it took before she had vanished into the traveler's void, she watched him raise his pebbled wand and banish the grinning specter in the sky in an explosion of red stars and purple sparks. The child in her arms tightened his grasp in fear and they were gone, folded neatly into the realm of Space and pressed hard into their destination.
She caught herself and the boy as she stumbled from the void. He cried out and his fists pummeled at her chest in anguish. She knew Side-Along wasn't advised when it came to transporting infants, but she also knew that tonight, time was of the essence. Augusta Longbottom's house loomed in front of her, a giant and imposing manse. Augusta had ousted the muggle minister that had lived there several decades ago and the once godly home had become a magical haven for wild, Spiky Bushes and Jewelweed. A gnome poked his head out of his hole in the ground beneath a bush and watched her as she stepped gingerly around the Spiky Bush lining the walkway and then the puny creature sunk low in the dirt as she stepped up to the heavy, wooden door.
Before she could knock, the door swung open and Augusta stood before her in a thick, sleeping robe clutched to her chest. The fierce, old woman glanced sharply at Minerva before pulling the babe from her arms and cradling him against her.
"The Wards sent a warning to me," said Augusta, trailing a finger over the boy's jaw. "They're dead, aren't they?"
"I'm so sorry, Augusta," whispered Minerva, watching her friend hold her grandson against her chest. "Frank and Alice…it was His work. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named…."
"I know who's work it was, dear. No one else could hurt my son." Augusta's jaw clenched tightly and she drew a deep breath. "I'm sure Dumbledore needs you elsewhere. Be assured that Neville will be fine here. I'll keep my grandson safe."
"That's not all, Augusta. We think…Albus and I, that is…that He's gone. Finished," the words spilled out fast and Minerva could feel a small tendril of hope blossom in her chest at the words. The Dark Lord vanquished at last, she thought. The War over.
Augusta's eyes widened and she gasped, pulling young Neville up to rest against her shoulder. "You're sure?"
"There was no sign of Him in the home and Albus believes He's dead, that's what he told me."
"Thank Merlin."
"I must go now, Augusta. Be safe."
"I will, Minerva. Same to you."
Minerva vanished once more with a twist of her feet and Augusta once again lowered Neville and looked into his sleeping face. She brushed back his bangs and gasped at the blood that smeared his forehead as her fingers passed across it. A thin cut sliced neatly above his brow in the shape of a lightning bolt, its edges raw and oozing.
She brought the boy inside and summoned a cloth from one of the linen closets, wiping it delicately across the wound. It was deep and Neville whimpered as it stung. She tried to heal it with a spell, but the cut wouldn't close. It had stopped bleeding and lay livid against the boy's pale skin.
She wondered if it would scar.
Had the idea to try my hand at a What If Neville Was the Boy Who Lived fic and got this.
If it ends up being liked, I'll try and continue with it. If not, then at least I only wrote the one part before continuing on!
Feel free to pick at mistakes or British-isms. I'm American, so any help in that regard would be greatly appreciated!
R&R, thanks.